Cat Alone - 6 -

April 28





I could taste her while she approached. The nearer she came the more sour felt my tongue. Was her name Sarah? I understood Sour, though. Sour came so near she touched me. My heart flew. Then I turned my head toward strength that did not want me. Ah the upheaval.


The monotone of the wind, the vertigo of the triggered objects, soaring until their legs were weak.

And now the slump. After falling, we all slept.

his wanting last stands

this the brothel had: an orchard the brothel had an orchard, the tarnished dusk saw the tarts agape upon my casket. i was rotting inside, I know; the casket swathed in murky dusk, on stilts of a sort, in the middle of a clearing in the brothel’s ordinary orchard; on stilts of a sort, as a wart, a tough bristly wart, with me, the body, a nauseating lump dumped inside. the irreverent bitches razzed the irksome squirt, buck naked, no shoes. “–even in his last box his wanting last stands; here he glibly struts, stationary though, with his humble straw erect, bridging the domains, linking the realms of death and life.” “–we must burn this, sisters, a bonfire should be afoot, is already on the cards; then the ashes and the mishmash shall help the orchard’s chances.” nobody meanwhile had seen the appearance as a conundrum of any sort. the worthless bastard, erst so tight with his purse, desiring now perhaps to be honored by his “family,” the last rites performed by the priestesses, the attentions of whom he had profusely craved every other crummy day of the week; dying to sink his crooked little straw into the sacred fountains of another cunt, squeezing out a wad that never amounted to spit, then quelling his thirst at the current fountain, sinking his nose in the asshole of the whore, warming his hands at the lambent stove, clinging to his scant wealth as a sick skunk to his stink clung, a theft of which would have betrayed his weakness, and imperiled his chances of ever again drinking at the priestesses’ sacred fountains of tomorrow and who knows how many other days. now he is dead, waiting for the fire. bleak wart on the orchard, ignite! throw up your flames! withdrawn no longer in the rotting shell of your disgusting flesh! throats smothered by the smoke... are they suppressing a sob, a growl...? have some whores felt left in the lurch...? i doubt it, though it is a fact that i hear some of them singing encomia to the bastard; they don’t any longer nurse the old aggravations; looks like all has been condoned, paid with the corpse; they are now as the vestals in communion grieving and mourning for the fallen inchoate project of a hero. their lengthy shadows – phantasmagoric whimsical witchy priapic sycophantic carnivorous – wild dancing maenads of an olden bacchanal – their shadows thrown all twisted up on the walls that surround the orchard of the brothel closed for once. something snapped and i knew i shouldn’t be that exposed. the world came crumbling down – an overwhelming sound as of wolves baying at my ears, and on my face the unbearable breath of a terrifyingly opened furnace. had they stopped singing, was the ceremony over...? tell me: do i already belong...?

his wanting last stands

this the brothel had: an orchard the brothel had an orchard, the tarnished dusk saw the tarts agape upon my casket. i was rotting inside, I know; the casket swathed in murky dusk, on stilts of a sort, in the middle of a clearing in the brothel’s ordinary orchard; on stilts of a sort, as a wart, a tough bristly wart, with me, the body, a nauseating lump dumped inside. the irreverent bitches razzed the irksome squirt, buck naked, no shoes. “–even in his last box his wanting last stands; here he glibly struts, stationary though, with his humble straw erect, bridging the domains, linking the realms of death and life.” “–we must burn this, sisters, a bonfire should be afoot, is already on the cards; then the ashes and the mishmash shall help the orchard’s chances.” nobody meanwhile had seen the appearance as a conundrum of any sort. the worthless bastard, erst so tight with his purse, desiring now perhaps to be honored by his “family,” the last rites performed by the priestesses, the attentions of whom he had profusely craved every other crummy day of the week; dying to sink his crooked little straw into the sacred fountains of another cunt, squeezing out a wad that never amounted to spit, then quelling his thirst at the current fountain, sinking his nose in the asshole of the whore, warming his hands at the lambent stove, clinging to his scant wealth as a sick skunk to his stink clung, a theft of which would have betrayed his weakness, and imperiled his chances of ever again drinking at the priestesses’ sacred fountains of tomorrow and who knows how many other days. now he is dead, waiting for the fire. bleak wart on the orchard, ignite! throw up your flames! withdrawn no longer in the rotting shell of your disgusting flesh! throats smothered by the smoke... are they suppressing a sob, a growl...? have some whores felt left in the lurch...? i doubt it, though it is a fact that i hear some of them singing encomia to the bastard; they don’t any longer nurse the old aggravations; looks like all has been condoned, paid with the corpse; they are now as the vestals in communion grieving and mourning for the fallen inchoate project of a hero. their lengthy shadows – phantasmagoric whimsical witchy priapic sycophantic carnivorous – wild dancing maenads of an olden bacchanal – their shadows thrown all twisted up on the walls that surround the orchard of the brothel closed for once. something snapped and i knew i shouldn’t be that exposed. the world came crumbling down – an overwhelming sound as of wolves baying at my ears, and on my face the unbearable breath of a terrifyingly opened furnace. had they stopped singing, was the ceremony over...? tell me: do i already belong...?